12 October 2006

three poems

this obese insight of us

these colonic old streets
wet barcoded words
on this continuous, poetic leaf
the luxury of granulated oxygen

consumed here, in this leadlight space
a murray street mindshare,
shaved alive inside your narrows
her honour a sheepsback mountain

one momentary glimpse:
a transitory fleshy circuit
a plasma of our station
this concrete etching thing

swallowing the future virus
a blank rhetoric before we cease
like the memory of money
brittle as a ceramic option

ah! we are but metaphors,
said the blistering sky
of rancid crops, she said
her back to the bricks


the cattle truck of meaning:
a city smoke reading

consistent spring streets, a bile
a rampant train of consigned credit
our scenic carparks - ruined wattle

waiting for access to each side of you
my plastic rigidity reflected wax
a bitter slash in the shopfront mirror

this spiral of clarity as the siren speaks
in clouds of impulse buyer guilt
a bold face of cream - an institute
a polaroid the size of a bustop

yet a paddock of nothing
is never empty

and we wait in uniforms -
an inspection of this brick-paved silhouette -
a desalinated interest


at capital colour corner

my recycled face digging you
and your wheatbelt masculinity
these feet an achey-break riff

asked yet unspoken:
this honours student of mass capital
a shred of incarcerated beef
versus my guantanamo teeth
a separate score to reach

an electric sweat bag of global insecurity; an awkward hip,
a copper taste, the hay street cracks,
a horses tender hoof

hers is the green swaggered will
of a buckled ten speed racer
a HK grille for teeth

the rape of stunning clouds
a jarrah without arms
shifts dust unnoticed

welcome my sisters and my brothers

welcome my sisters and my brothers,

here in this thick n festy blistered saturday night post bluelight type night, our voices gathered in slung tones.

we lick together the painted sounds of a cluttered humanity, a radical insanity, a corporate monstrosity - this september nine or eleven fluorescence.

and all hell can't stop us now... lights out lights out...

the token slice of a massive broken Sony hack - like remixing the shards of her skull at the global village idiot's door - the slower child a bloodied pulp. the stunning tank mud at her feet. her munted screams - a helicopter gunship strafe. rapid. a timid salute. a blunt machete. khaki. skin. blood. a media cycle dissipation. a violent nothingness. another product

all hell can't stop us now all hell can't stop us now...

and hey once again these bakery lights - feelin' all planetary, coz the spring red n green cans and the silver guitar breezes lift the tone like this. and we taxed our eager fossil fuelled errors, the global dimming - my warm baggy-faced rhetoric, a panda squad of random flaccid plastic cats in this room all scratchin at the door of numb flickering silent violence

got a short short memory, must have a, short memory...

a tru-blue wait awhile apology from jesus - i gave. a red wine stain, his shroud a festered gown. we slept together in the prodigal suns of winter, a brief kansas moment, like spinifex fires at the ridge - my heels a click away. the seven sisters dreaming. an iron-topped desecration.

Shall steam up like inspiration, Eloquent, oracular; A volcano heard afar

and in the streets candlelight, my mouth against yrs, this meal the lips of my body - a metal moisturised canvas. and tonight ours is a sceptic remedy, like a karl marx doll at the ancient desert edges - a typical racial posing. wound up on an incestuous nobility - a touring band commodity - a reality. a reality. a reality

a short memory, must have a, short memory. must have a, short memory...

all the great grey tunnels are like that; the concrete glass transformer god-cocks, a friday 5pm uber glare - a clever traffic incident, a massive eyelash fetish, 3 metre red font at the lights - this vulgar moment of us

although nothing seems right - in cars... in cars... in cars

so i'm this rapid onset climate belt, i'm a transient collared political metaphor for change - i am, he said - i am i am i am he said - a man in a crocodile hunter suit of spastic gay words - spitting at yr ear i am i am i am - and my rebirth eyes are a sacred trance - never reborn as the same repackaging, a modified colour - our beautiful all-new logo lives we live at the bitumen skank - a tragedy of the suburban commons.

short memory must have a... lights out... car...

i'm here in my car. and look! in yr seat at the post, yr arms folded in stoic bewilderment, look at you, you can almost hear the salt cancer breathe. yet my vaginal descriptions of nuclear capital, the menstrual shifts beneath yr fingers, the fabric stretches, wet taut tears... the stubble rips in our car.

and here and there and here and here...

on you the auras splash of direct mental action, in broken chairs and rented fast fast cars and satellite phones we abort and regroup on the Northern highways, empty. no cargo of freedoms tonight, no drunken chants at the freeze-dried traffic. no colours no preservatives. just razor wire and asbestos utopias

no no we won't: no no we won't: no no we won't...

because we don't care - not in this car. this air-conditioned mind filter of steel and glass - this car. a petrochemical canvas farce. baby its not my turn to dismantle brick by fucking brick the impulse shelves of vapid, rancid colour. to swallow this shopping centre testosterone, my unbeaten uneaten unlabelled flesh

all hell can't stop us now lights out

but my blistered summer like feet the black ground sprint to the sand, the rising oceans swell. the glazed eye squeals - chasing shadow island pads and products. at the bustop of dominant culture.

And Gary Numan said from the tinny tiny mouth - Here in my car I feel safest of all - I can lock all my doors It's the only way to live - In cars - Here in my car I can only receive - I can listen to you It keeps me stable for days - In cars - Here in my car Where the image breaks down - Will you visit me please? If I open my door - In cars - Here in my car I know I've started to think - About leaving tonight Although nothing seems right

In cars... In cars

lights out


"...And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'... - Shelley

03 October 2006

mammals without helmets

mammals without helmets continued

Art: Offence Intended - Anarchism is not a tshirt.

Comment on Perth Indymedia over some poems I posted to sort of illustrate a repost of the Anarchist Age Weekly. A great dialogue follows...

This is my comment:


Art: Offence Intended - Anarchism is not a tshirt - by Original Poster

Thanks for the generosity and eloquence of response. It is all appreciated.

The images above are poems. Rapidly created. With images found at random and cyber-text... I'm attempting to distort meanings of things. I'm a poet, fuelled by activism and heavily influenced by 21st Century advertising.

There are many more of its ilk here: http://antipoet.blogspot.com

Its predictable that these antagonistic pieces, in particular the porn-goddess and naked skydiver above, would cause offence to feminists, anarchists, activists, artists, critics, bogans and vegans alike.

Indeed. Yes. To propose anarchism as a "radical" solution with a come-hither porn-like pose is proposterous; monstrous. Anarchism is more than a slogan. More than a product...

ANARCHIST FAQ: http://www.infoshop.org/faq/

The poems under scrutiny above, are constructed in an effort to simply deconstruct the blatant codes of advertising; maybe to offer a crude disruption in the blunt messages of porn and slogan-driven consumer culture. The known messages of Anarchism are also distorted, made redundant. Capitalism always wins...

With a hint of protest slogans and trivialising deeply enlightening radical concepts; these are a contrived shibboleth at the discovery of late-anti-capitalist 21st Century anarchism.

Art. Yeah...

What am I trying here? To point out that anarchism is incongruous to these things that advertising demands; this art is an insult - its a tackle at the language paradigms of 21st century greed, and rampant, apathetic oppression.

In this art, I'm enabling a deliberate misrepresentation of anarchism as an "ism".

I'm hoping for a rendering - a busted critique to the ideologies of advertising; of dead poetry; of cyber-neon meaninglessness. I'm attempting a confusive ideological play - with textual representations of Activism, of the notions of the Radical, of the Everyday...

YES. YES. Porn is ludicrous, offensive, disempowering and dangerous. Yet its' vulgarity is enslickened; commodified into popular culture. (Perhaps note the porn-girl pop-diva gaze above is far less repulsive to much of the perpetual Saturday morning TV soft-core toxic-bling video consumed en-masse - and perhaps not as distasteful as the repetitive late night TV "Hi-guys-wanna-play?" mobile-phone/screensaver/swingersclub skankommercials... )

These intentionally problematic images then. These boisterous juxtapositions beg: can you sloganise anarchism? How can we critique the pornography of consumer culture? In what forms? Etc..

Its a question. And the comments here attempt answers.


alboyd - antipoet